


My Love Is On The High Seas

by princessofmind



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:09:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/pseuds/princessofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chewed up and spit back out more times than you can count, you have no choice but to adapt and shelter the bruises on your heart, because you can't be weak, never weak.  But sometimes, pulling up walls and forcing people out isn't the best way to protect yourself.  Sometimes, you have to hide how terrified you are and let them in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

It was July, and you were twelve.

It was sticky hot, the kind it always gets right before a heavy rain. Swollen clouds hang in the sky, almost close enough for you to reach out and touch from the roof, drenching you in the water the town so desperately needs. Your shirt sticks to your back, sweat trickling down your sternum to tickle your stomach, and the air that slips in to your lungs is heavy, like trying to breathe cotton.

The tavern isn't any cooler, only adding a feel of claustrophobia to the already smothering warmth. The front room, tables and chairs stacked immaculately still from the scrubbing he gave the floor that morning, is deserted, the oppressive weather driving people to seek comfort outside. There might be a few patrons loitering in their rooms, curtains drawn but window flung open, their clothes draped over the footboard of the bed, too sluggish to much else besides lay there. You'd be sorely tempted to strip off your own shirt, but your mother would smack you with one of her spoons if you dared walk around in such a state of indecency.

The boards creak in familiar cacophony under your feet, slipping around the worn wood of the bar and through the splintered wood door that leads back in to the kitchen. The heat will only be worse there, and you roll the sleeves of your shirt up in anticipating, scratching idly at the burn still healing on your right arm ( _it's your own fault_ , the new girl had scolded softly, _for running around the kitchen without paying attention to whether the oven was open or not_ ).

You can smell soap suds, and you reckon your mother abandoned her washing buckets next to the back door, distracted by some mountain out of a molehill that demands her attention immediately. There's also the scent of peaches, their fuzzy skin waiting to be tossed in the compost heap across the lawn, baking in the oven. She bought them fresh this morning while you trailed sleepily behind her, sleep still thick on your lashes as you tried not to slump against the stall.

She wore her blue dress that day, the one that makes her eyes look as pretty as the designs on the nice china that she only takes out on special occasions, like wedding parties or funerals. Her curly brown hair is always pulled up at the beginning of the day, held tight in place by exactly ten pins (you've counted), smelling faintly of lavender soap. The curls are always falling around her face, tickling her laugh lines and hiding the frown wrinkles.

But the red spattering the immaculately bleached collar is new, and it's blossomed down the front of her dress like a stain, reminding you of the time you climbed on to the room with a pint of strawberries and ruined your best shirt. But this is thicker, dripping off her fingertips on to the floor, a bag of flour burst open underneath her. The red has coagulated in the white, and you would almost think it's cherry pie filling, but it's smeared around her mouth and her chin, and her eyes are closed, almost like she's slipped off to sleep like she sometimes does when sitting at the bar early in the morning, mending your slacks or one of her aprons.

"Mom?" Her skin is pale, not the flushed petal pink it always seems to be, until she turns cherry red in anger or exasperation. Your hands are shaking as you push at her shoulder, your feet grinding the blood in to the stone and flour, feeling slick and gritty under your soles. "Mama?" you whisper, and you can barely hear your own small voice under the panic wailing in your ears.

The doctor isn't sure what's wrong with her, and they don't meet your eyes as they wipe the blood and flour off her and carry her up to her bed. You wish you could hide in the kitchen like you usually did or duck your head, hiding your eyes behind the messy fringe of your bangs, but you can't. You have to be strong now, and the whispers of _devil child_ and _whore's son_ have to roll off your back, not cripple you, because she needs you to be strong.

The new girl sleeps in your bed, because even though your mother lies dying, you can't afford to close your doors to hungry customers or the dock hands looking for a quiet place to drink. The scent of peaches wafts up the stairs, and it makes your stomach clench and a pained moan fall from your lips. It brings back memories of being on the docks, clutching your mother's hand as you stare, wide eyed and still innocent, at the seemingly endless expanse of sails stretched out before you.

There was a woman, draped in rich silks sitting on the bow of one of the boats, who winked as you walked past, and a toothless black skinned man who opened a chest to your curious eyes, letting you sniff the powdery substances of the jars within until you started to sneeze. You remember how your mother had laughed, eyes crinkling, because she didn't have enough reasons to smile, and you wished you could bottle up her smile and the smell of cinnamon to keep in your pocket forever.

Her hand is cold in yours, waxy and foreign, but you don't want to let go. Her chest no longer moves, her lips too red, her eyes not flickering behind thin lids. Everything is blurred, and you're aware of a hand on your shoulder, and it takes the rest of your strength to not whirl on them and strike out.

"Sollux, you need to get the doctor," the new girl says, and her voice is soft, soothing like it always is, but you shake your head and snarl wordlessly at her. If they don't come, don't take her away, she may wake up. You remember horror stories whispered in candle light about bodies buried, people waking up, fingernails scraping against the smooth word and wailing under the earth. The words won't come, but your jaw works anyways, nothing coming out but a choked whine.

She's pulling you in to her arms, smelling warm and foreign, like one of the perfumes brought in from the east, and you have to let go of your mother's hand, you don't have the strength to cling and simply fall boneless in to her embrace as you sob. She's not much older than you, and it should shame you to fall apart under her murmured words and soft hands, but you can do nothing but sob and shake as they take away the only person you've ever loved and loved you in return.


	2. Chapter One

"You overslept. Again."

It was cold, it had been cold for the past month. It wasn't so bad during the day, but when Aradia knees you in the stomach crawling over you to get out of bed before first light, it's the kind of chill that settles in your bones and keeps you locked up under the layers of quilts and thick woolen blankets. It hurts to open your eyes, and even having the top half of your face above the warm cocoon is painful. Kanaya says you'd be more at home in her homeland, where it's warm more often than not, and as your fingers creak in your attempts to fight off your sister, you can't help but agree.

"I don't have to be up as early as you," you groan, the words rehearsed, and you can't help but wonder if maybe you should be trying to find an argument that actually _works_ against the fireball standing with her hands on her hips, scowl wrinkling her lightly freckled features. "I'm useless in the kitchen, Kanaya will just throw me out, and no one else is even up yet."

She sighs, shaking your shoulder with surprising gentleness. "The Doc is coming today, remember?"

Instead of jolting you out of bed, all it makes you want to do it pull the blankets up over your head and never get up. It's the time of year where the sea starts to churn up nasty storms and the docks start to close, banked in snow and frozen temperatures. The coastline off Cove is temperate during the winter, making it a favorite place for traders to spend the harshest months out of harm's way. The port becomes choked with ships, emptying their cargo and their crew, some staying for a leisurely break and some heading further inland to find work.

It would be nothing short of a clusterfuck if not for the dock manager, ironically known as just Doc, who makes it his personal agenda to make sure all the crews desiring to stay in Cove are split up and sent to different inns depending on the size of the groups and how much they can afford to spend. Some get sent to the cheaper boarding houses that rely on the winter travelers for their livelihood, and some smaller crews get sent to the taverns, taking up only half of the available rooms at a time.

Doc had come by yesterday morning, his white hair slicked back from his face and green coat immaculate, with news that he had a crew to bring Sollux.

_"It's only eight rooms," Doc said, accepting the tea Aradia brought him with a charming smile. "That's not even half what you have. I talked to the captain when he made port. More than half of his crew is going in to Dublin on the morrow, and the remaining crew is splitting between your tavern and Miss Lalonde's board."_

_"You know I don't like having their type here if I can help it," you say, turning the thick cut glass over in your hands, the frown tugging at your lips reflected back at you in fractured pieces. It's hard to protect people when your business is running a bar and housing drunks overnight when they can't stumble home, but something about the seafarers that come through your door makes you think of the slime that collects on the cobblestone around the docks. It makes your hackles raise and demand that Aradia stay out of sight after the sun sets._

_Doc arches an eyebrow, the china clinking as he sets his cup back down. "I understand your hesitation, but I don't think this particular captain is going to give your girls any trouble at all. He's very proud, a bit pompous, but he certainly won't be harassing anyone. Or stand for anyone harassing them."_

_You tap your fingers against the bar. It's not something you like, certainly a trait you picked up from your late mother, but the crews who can pay up front certainly make the winters a bit more comfortable. It's easier to stretch money when you know exactly how much you're going to be getting. And as the sea grows more and more restless, odd customers are going to be harder and harder to come by, especially when the snows start._

_"Bring them by tomorrow morning," you concede, turning to place the glass back in the case with the others. "I'll set aside a block of rooms for them to look at, and make sure they know that I expect payment up front."_

You shake your head, the floor like ice under your toes, and you run your fingers through your hair as you yawn. "That means I've still got to get the rooms ready."

"I already swept when I got back from the market," Aradia replied, her blank expression melting away to show one of genuine affection. "You're useless in the morning, so all I need you to do is help me make the beds."

"I don't know how I got along before you," you reply honestly, kissing her forehead softly as you stand. It wasn't how you always felt; when she first turned up on your doorstep, with little more than a scrap of paper with your name on it, lips pinched tightly shut, you wanted to throw her out and never look back. She had the wild red curls and cattish green eyes that you should have, that haunt you sometimes in your dreams, and it felt like someone had stuck a knife between your ribs. But she was thin, a few more missed meals away from gaunt, her dress dirty and torn, and you were pretty sure there was blood under her fingernails. So you swallowed the bile in your throat and brought her in, scrubbed her until she shone, and put her to work.

She hums as she tucks the ends of the sheets under the mattress, the smell of lavender sprigs wafting up from the clean white linen. The floors have been swept, and holy branches, their berries bright red against the worn wood, rest decoratively on the dressers. You force the old windows open, salt and cold and sunshine wafting in with the wind as she smooths colorful quilts until there are no creases in sight. She puts her favorite in the big room, the one you know will be given to the captain; it was a gift from Rose, thicker than most, made of worn swatches of silk that she must have collected over many years, bright blues and royal purples bleeding in to soft pinks to form a sunset that is truly something to behold.

"Mr. Captor?" a voice calls, and Aradia practically smacks in to the wall in her hurry to get down the stairs. She usually acts so stoic, unsmiling and serious, but the prospect of new people with their stories and trinkets from across the seas always sends her in to a tizzy. You follow at a much more subdued pace, arriving just in time to see Doc slip a brightly wrapped piece of candy in to her hands, which she conspiratorially shoves in to her apron pocket.

There are fifteen men gathered in the empty space left in the main room when Kanaya pushes all the furniture out of the way to mop, and it's such a conglomerate of people you're having to make quite the effort not to stare. Living in a large port town, especially one so close to a naval base, has made you more culturally sensitive than most; the different colors and races don't faze you as much, but in your experience, people tend to stick with their ethnic groups.

There's several dark skinned men, their hair closely shorn, and a couple darkly tanned men with their long black hair pulled back from their faces in loose, fraying ponytails. There's a remarkably short man, pale skinned but with a sunburn across his freckled skin despite the cold weather. He's slouched, hands in his pockets, bushy eyebrows drawn together in what his wrinkles lead you to believe is a perpetual frown.

The surly looking man is standing next to who could only be the captain; Doc had said he was a bit pompous, and he looked like a peacock standing next to a bunch of pigeons. His black hair has been slicked back from his face, the waves perfectly tamed and out of his eyes. His skin isn't as tanned as the rest of his crew's, smoother looking, but still the dark shade you've come to associate with people from the Indies. His coat is a modest black, but the golden buttons have been polished to a high shine, and the glint of purple silk you can see at his throat under his coat makes you give Aradia a mental pat on the back; he'll love the quit. There are several gold rings in each of his ears, and a delicate pair of glasses rests on his slightly upturned nose.

He looks at you, and the corner of his mouth turns up ever so slightly, and he's transformed in your eyes from a well-dressed patron to a pompous asshole.

"This ain't exactly the high class establishment you made it out to be," the man says, turning his attention to Doc, and you want to shove the dozen of glistening rings on his fingers down his throat.

Doc smiles disarmingly. "I assure you, Captain Ampora, the Doubled Bucket is one of the finest taverns in our area. It's truly fortunate for you that Mr. Captor is usually so reluctant to take on boarders; he's usually very quick to fill up during this time of year."

The man (Captain Ampora, even his name sounds ostentatious as hell) sighs, a long suffering sound that makes him sound truly put out to even be setting a foot inside your door. "Well, Doc, you'd be the expert, and the prices are reasonable enough, so I can't exactly complain if it ain't the nicest place I've ever slept. I've certainly seen worse."

"How kind of you to say so," you grit out, and the man arches an eyebrow at you, his smirk growing, and it's very fortunate that Kanaya sweeps in to the room when she does, toting a tray of biscuits fresh from the oven that the crew falls on like they haven't eaten in a fortnight. (Ampora doesn't take one, of course he doesn't.)

"Here's the payment we already decided on," Doc says, pressing a bag heavy with coins in to your hands. "Captain Ampora was very pleased with how reasonable the price was, and despite his attitude, I'm sure he'll be very happy to stay under your roof."

He's talking to the short man who appears to be trying to force one of the biscuits on him, nose wrinkled as he shoves the offending baked good out of his face. His eyes meet yours, and it feels like someone's tying your intestines in knots as he smirks at you. "Goody."


	3. Chapter Two

Your first impressions about people are seldom wrong. Ever since he first set foot across the threshold, Captain Ampora has rubbed you the wrong way. He's only a few inches taller than you, but he's always looking down his nose at you, eyes twinkling like your existence is just a joke to him from behind his glasses. It's easy enough to act polite to the other patrons, his crew are barely around until the sun has set and the drinks are being served, but you find your lips drawing back in a snarl when he makes a snide comment about the spots on the glassware or the draft in the main room when he ends up seated too close to the window.

Unlike the rest of the crew, he doesn't leave during the day. Some of them work down at the docks, repairing what they can before the snows come, or on their own ship to make sure everything is water tight and tied down. Occasionally, you'll see the captain leaving with the short angry one, but he always returns quickly, and spends his time shut up in his room. It makes your mission of avoiding him even harder, since he's almost always present when you have to go in and clean.

There's always a book open on his desk, sometimes a map or two, and more often than not you can see ink stains on his fingertips. It's contrary to your view of what most ship captains are like; he's studious, almost, pouring over his books and maps until his neck is stiff enough that his crew teases him about his strange posture when he finally emerges in the evening.

But you can't find it in you to find such a strange trait endearing, since he always looks at you like a bug under a magnifying glass when you're in his room. There's seldom much for you to do (his appearance isn't the only thing he keeps immaculate), and his disdain for your presence makes the air thick and almost unbearable.

"I really don't need you to come in here and clean every day," he says about a week in to his stay, the pages of his book crinkling as he turns them. He doesn't even have the courtesy to look at you when he speaks.

You're crouched next to the cleaning bucket, and you rock back on your heels, arms resting on your knees, as you frown at him. "I didn't realize my presence was such a distraction, your highness."

He looks over his shoulder at you, a grimace on his face. "You're an eyesore. I take time off in the winter to have some much needed time alone, an' I can hardly enjoy it with you poppin' in here every day like you own the place."

"I _do_ own the place."

He waves a hand like such an obvious statement is trivial. "You can see that I'm a neat person, the only thing I would make a mess with is my ink, and I'm hardly so careless that I would spill it all over the desk or the floors."

"That's not the point," you say through gritted teeth. This is your tavern, and you have a reputation to uphold. It has to stay clean, well kept, regardless of what the pompous asshole says. He can complain about your presence all he wants, people do it enough behind your back anyways, but you won't give him an excuse to complain about the state of the room. "Can't have you smearing our name when you decide things aren't clean enough for you."

His condescending laugh reminds you of a barking dog, short and loud and more than a little abrasive. "Mr. Captor, if I really had something against your establishment, I wouldn' be here. You don' have to like me, but you need to stop imaginin' these slights against you. I'm not that kind of man."

You throw your cleaning rag in to the bucket a bit more roughly than you should have, and a bit of the murky water sloshes over the side. "If you decide you don't want me here, that's it; I'm not going to be at your beck and call. It's either on the schedule or not at all." The notion of him coming to you, that goddamn smirk on his face (like he's wearing now) as he instructs you to scrub the floors or change the sheets like you're some sort of maid makes your blood boil.

His eyebrows draw down, clearly not happy with this declaration, but damned if you're going to wait on him. His silence stretches, and you pick up your bucket and depart the room with only a momentary pause at the door. "And don't ask the girls, either. They have other things to do besides take care of you." And with that, you close the door none too gently behind you.

"I want you to stay away from the captain," you say that night as Aradia sits by your feet behind the bar, her hair loose about her face as she picks at the dinner she holds in her lap.

"But why?" she asks, her nose wrinkled in the way it always does when she's not happy with a command you're giving her.

"He has an attitude problem," you sigh, nudging her hip gently with the toe of your boot, making her squirm away from you, sticking her tongue out despite the faint white coating of potatoes it boasts. "That's gross."

She swallows her mouthful of food, pushing her green beans around on the plate with her fork. "So? You have an attitude problem too."

From the mouths of babes. Ampora seems to get along well enough with his crew, and although the murmurs behind your back never go completely away, people begrudgingly respect you, and Aradia and Kanaya like you well enough. Perhaps your personalities are just inflammatory to one another. "Still," you chuckle, "I'd rather not give him the opportunity to take anything he may have against me out on you."

And of course she doesn't listen to you; Aradia is headstrong and stubborn and above all curious, so it really shouldn't surprise you that on your way down the hallway you see her in his bedroom, arms laden with clean linens and a determined look on her face.

"I told your father I don't need someone in here to take care of thin's for me," he's saying, not even looking up from his reading.

"He's my brother," she corrects, already pulling the blanket off the bed, the rustling and consequent thump of it falling to the floor drawing his attention to her more fully. "And I don't care how clean you are, your sheets are gonna get dirty, so I'm gonna change them."

He's looking at her like he's not sure what to make of her, but the confused, agitated expression melts in to one that's softer, gentler than anything you've seen in the weeks since he came to the tavern. "I see can't argue with you, then. Carry on."

It really isn't proper for you to lurk in the doorway, peering around to watch the interaction, but you're concerned about her, and plan to give her a firm talking to as soon as she leaves. It takes her a bit to make the large bed by herself, the way it's tucked against the wall making it a bit more difficult, but eventually she smooths the quilt back in to place, looking ridiculously pleased with herself.

"There," she says firmly, drawing the captain's attention back to her.

"Well, I appreciate your hard work, little miss," he says, tapping his jeweled fingers against the pages of his book as he turns to look at her. She starts to gather the dirty sheets, but stops, her intense gaze lingering on his face. It's clearly enough to make him uncomfortable, running his fingers through his hair and wiping at his cheeks. "What?"

"Did it hurt when they stuck those in your ears?" she asks, and he turns in his chair, leaning down as if to get a look at the insolent little whelp who's bothering him in the way he explicitly told you not to.

"Naw," he says, and she approaches him cautiously, standing on tip-toe to reach up and brush her fingers against the glinting gold hoops that shine against his dark skin. "Not more'n a pinch."

"I think Sol would kill me if I ever put things in my ears," she says resolutely, giving the hoop under her fingers a slight tug. He bats her hands away, although there's no power behind the action, and you swear there's a smile on his lips as he goes back to his book.

"Yeah, an' I bet he'd kill ya again if he knew you were in here against his wishes."

You turn and hurry down the stairs before Aradia decides to leave, and you find yourself wondering exactly who the hell that was treating your little sister so tenderly. Certainly not the asshole of a captain you've been putting up with so far. His smile made an uncomfortable warmth stir in your stomach, and you're not sure how you feel about that at all.

**Author's Note:**

> My Love Is On The High Seas is a story inspired by a single song that shares the title of this work. In it's original language, the song is "Tha Mo Ghaol Air Àird A’ Chuain" by Julie Fowlis, and the first time I heard it, I couldn't get it out of my head. When I spend so long on a song, I start coming up with a story to go with it. Usually they're just little drabbles, short things I can get out quickly, but this story has gotten away from me rather quickly. I don't want to reveal too much, so I'll just say that I'm purposefully not listing any other characters until they are introduced by name. This is my first major undertaking since Resuscitate Me, Baby, so please bear with me if the update schedule is a bit sporadic; I do not have this one written ahead of time.
> 
> That said, I hope you'll look forward to this new adventure with me.


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